


The Tower

by kinzeylee



Category: Bloodlines Series - Richelle Mead
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, F/M, Hearing Voices, Memory Loss, Paranoia, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinzeylee/pseuds/kinzeylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She counts time by the periods of light and dark. (a re-education au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part I – Second Coming**

 

263 days. Two hundred sixty three days since she was captured. 263.

 

 

But of course that’s only relative. She counts by the periods of light and dark. They are never equal or constant, but it’s the only thing she has to go on right now. There’s no sun here, no moon; only time.

 

 

And even then she’s unsure. _How can you really measure time without a watch? How can you be sure that it exists?_ She tried to count by scratching lines into her skin but they made her stop. No more lines, no more time. No more.

-We could be sitting in eternity without even knowing it. We could live forever in a moment-

 

 

She’s beginning to sound like Adrian.

_That’s not good, is it? No, probably not._

She’s always been the logical one, the clinical one; the one in control. She still is, in a way.

_Control your impulses; make them think you’re a lamb. But you’re not. You’re the lion._

_Don’t use it yet. Keep it hidden. You’ll need it one day, when they try to re-ink you. It’ won’t work._

It can’t work.

(You were a firecracker in the beginning, snapping off short responses that would make Adrian proud. Not anymore. You realized early on that the only way to get out was to play along. Make the change believable, of course, but make the change.)

_I’m ready to confess my sins._

And what a long list they make. •

 

 

That’s about all she controls.

The rest is them: the lights, the sound, the food, the drugs.

265, 266.

The cross in the wall taunts her, winking behind the glass, and she longs to touch it, to fasten it around her neck and feel the weight of the wood against her chest.

_You can have it_ , they say, _as a sign of our good will_. And she says no, the first six times. (Seven’s the charm.)

 

 

She thinks, because there’s nothing else to do.

She thinks of Keith, and how he raped her sister. And how she made a deal with the devil for vengeance (revenge). And how he’s now an empty body with a glass eye.

She thinks of Rose, the vampire (friend?) who she helped on the run. Rose, who killed a man. Rose, who dropped her like a hot potato when it was convenient. (Rose, who’s probably helping Adrian tear the world apart looking for you. Probably. Probably?)

She thinks of Zoe, who turned her in. There is a pain in her chest that no words can describe.

 

 

267.

268.

 

 

She recites facts to dull the boredom.

_The Coliseum has over 80 entrances and could accommodate around 50,000 spectators…_

 

 

You mentioned to us in a previous session that he “dabbled.”

Only once.

A man who only rapes once is still considered a rapist.

It’s not the same.

How so?

He didn’t mean to. He –they – were both drunk.

But that’s only his word.

I guess.

Guess?

 

 

_You’re ready for the next level_ , they say, and she smiles but her heart spasms in fear. She knew it was going to get worse.

It does.

 

 

_Many roman roads exist to this day, 2000 years after they were made. The exact recipe for roman concrete used in these roads has been lost…_

 

 

She discovers that there are other things here, besides humans. There are vampires here too.

Some of them are Moroi, clinically and criminally insane.

Some of them are not.

 

 

She thinks of Adrian, and how he will come for her, break her out, somehow. How they’ll run towards each other and embrace and he will never, ever let her go.

She thinks of Adrian, with his stylishly messy brown hair, with his striking features that remind her of a marble statue, a work of art.

She thinks of Adrian, with his re- no, no, green eyes, they were definitely green. Forest green, but bright with feverish inspiration. With love.

She can’t remember what he smells like anymore.

 

 

She recites poetry too, when the facts get too monotonous. Poetry is emotion; poetry does not rely upon the facts. _Poetry transcends the confines of reality and reaches into the recesses of the soul._

Or that’s what he would say.

If he was here.

She hears his voice ringing in the hollow of her ears when the lights go out and thinks, _maybe he is._

 

 

Where are you?

Looking for you, you know that. I would never stop looking for you, not if I had to go to the ends of the Earth. I will find you.

It’s already been so long. 269 days.

Nay, my lady, tis but two months.

So little? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! Die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year…

She watches _Hamlet_ play out on the opposite wall and knows this can’t possibly be a good sign but thinks at least it’s something new.

 

 

There are mazes here. Or maybe just one large maze.

They have thick white walls made out of something smooth and hard. It’s no use to try and climb them; the sides are free of any imperfections, any ridges that might be used as hand holds. Just run.

She catches sight of two burning red orbs cutting through the darkness, approaching at a terrifying pace, and run she does.

 

 

This vampire. He was a spirit user, correct?

Yes.

Can you describe for us what abilities a spirit user has?

Healing, compulsion, dream-walking, aura reading. And telekinesis, or something like that. I only saw it used once.

By him.

No, not by him. By others.

But he could do it. He could do everything you’ve just described if he wanted.

Well hypothetically, but each user has their own strengths and weaknesses.

Which ones are his strengths?

Dream-walking and aura reading, I guess. And compulsion. He can heal, but it doesn’t come as easily for him as it does for Lissa.

Lissa?

Queen Vasilisa Dragomir.

I see. And did he ever use these…powers…on you?

Just the dream-walking and aura reading. That’s all.

And how would you know that?

Sorry? How do you know that he didn’t use compulsion on you? You wouldn’t remember if he did.

I know he wouldn’t do that. I trust him.

Do you, Sydney? Or did he tell you to?

I-

 

 

-met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful – a faery’s child

Her hair was long, her foot was light

And her eyes were wild.

 

 

Just a few more days, she tells herself, and cringes because it has already been years. She remembers so much of it, and so little. It floats out of her grasp, the echoes of smoke from birthday candles blown out too hastily. (Let me just rephrase that wish, please.) She wonders what she would wish for now.

As much as she doesn’t remember from this life, and the last, she remembers so much in words. They twist in circles and dance in her head, knotting into an endless loop, and isn’t it funny that I had to come down here to realize how skilled I am with them, how much they seem to live on the tip of my tongue and in the crooks of my skin? And I thought only he was the artist. _We dance a tumbled, twisted knot/our feet in rusted circuitry/the clock strikes what it once begot/this mask, my new identity…_

Day twists into night twists into day, and she goes on.

270.

 

 

_This is the last phase_ , they say, with kind smiles and cold eyes. _You’re to be commended, Sydney, for your excellent recovery. But remember, you still have much to atone for. You must continue to fight the darkness from retaking your soul as you do our work._

She watches their calculating faces, the chair that she will soon sit in, with a mixture of anticipation and horror. This is it. This is it. Don’t mess it up here.

_I am ready to have the darkness purged_ , she says with just the right mixture of automaton and walking corpse. Their smiles get impossibly boarder, each one stretching into a rubber rictus.

_Have a seat, Sydney_ , one says, _this will all be over in a minute._

Oh yes it will be.

Because this might not work. She was never sealed, there was never enough time, and now there’s no time. She has to trust her magic. Her magic that she kept hidden, her magic that they know nothing about. She has to believe it will save her.

She walks to the chair on wooden legs. Sitting down ramps up the edginess to her frame by a thousand and she can feel the nervous energy vibrate in her being. She contains it and exhales out slowly. This will work, this has to work, her human magic will conquer the vampire compulsion.

Unless…

Unless they aren’t going to use vampire magic. Unless they somehow found out and the magic they’re going to use is _human._

Her heart stutters and then picks up double time, and behind the solid mask she wears the fear is bubbling, looking for a way out. She never considered that, not in all the time she had to think here. All of this could end, all for nothing, right now, because she was careless enough to not account for all the variables. _Logical and rational are you, Sage?_

The hierophant has finished preparations and brings the needle to her cheek. And this could be the last time that Sydney Sage lives, thinks, draws breath, right here in this chair surrounded by wolves, while she may or may not be the lion. This could be it.

_No. The center will hold. Believe it_ , she thinks, and gasps when the needle hits home.

It’s funny, but she can’t quite remember what that means anymore.

(and what rough beast, it’s hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?)


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II – Ash Wednesday**

 

Because I do not hope to turn again

Because I do not hope

Because I do not hope to turn

 

 

There’s a fog covering the land, the faces of the people, and she walks around in a misted cloud of paper work in a base that she’s pretty sure she once broke into.

But when the fog breaks, it is glorious.

Very literally. She’s walking outside and the sun is shining down on her from a brilliant blue sky, and suddenly, for no discernible cause, she comes back to herself, fits into the hollow limbs of a ghost and _breathes._ The sun is dazzling, blinding even, to eyes that haven’t seen properly in so long. She has to collapse onto a bench just from the shock. And wonder. Because she made it. Her magic ate through the compulsion and now she’s here, free.

Except not quite. A glance at her watch tells her that work starts in twenty minutes, and she really can’t be late. If she’s late, the game’s up and they’ll know something’s off, and then back into the brig for her…

She stumbles to her feet and marches as fast as she can, back into the lion’s den. She needs to keep appearances. Find a way out, of course, but keep up the front. The alchemist building sits silently as she approaches, judging every move she makes, and for the first time since she started working there she feels terror. Free from the cloud, she is now a slave to her emotions.

But Sydney Sage is nothing if not courageous, so she enters anyway, fear dripping down the bend of her spine.

 

 

Two weeks later of shallow breathing and minor heart-attacks, and she’s beginning to wonder if this is the real way they control the people after re-education. Maybe the compulsion is just a sham, and it’s the _fear_. The fear’s enough to keep any one inline. The fear of the alchemists breathing down your neck, their wiry fingers clenched around your collar, ready to yank you back into the depths of hell…

 _Stop being paranoid_ , she tells herself, and couples it with a mental smack, but it’s kind of hard when you know that they are, in fact, out to get you.

 

 

A Christian poetry book is the only poetry book she was allowed to have, but she sucks it all in, not caring about the content. Poetry is a pathway to the past, when the world wasn’t so complicated or confusing. And she finds that she likes the Christian poems, especially William Blake. His voice is a soothing balm, even in her most manic moments.

There’s T. S. Eliot, too, as well as William Butler Yeats. When she finds his poem, all the way in the back, it’s like a firework goes off in her head. There’s something in there, some secret message waiting to be unlocked.

She keeps the book under her pillow, hopes the meaning will filter into her brain as she sleeps.

 

 

 _Um, Sydney…I was wondering if…maybe you’d like to catch dinner with me, sometime,_ Ian says on one of those very frequent occasions when he stops by her cubical for a visit. She always hates it when he wanders over because hiding her relative freedom when speaking directly to someone is a difficult task, and his eyes always seem to hold a nauseating amount of pity, but this time he looks hopeful and…oh god.

No doubt a higher-up suggested this to him, but it probably didn’t take much convincing for him to agree, and now he’s here…asking her out.

And she really can’t say no.

She keeps her response in the same dead tone that everything is phrased in nowadays, but he still perks up instantly, grinning like a fool, even as she’s slowly turning to a puddle in her chair.

 _Sorry,_ she thinks, _I’m so sorry, I had no choice._ Because she knows, she remembers, that there’s someone out there somewhere, waiting for her.

The name escapes her. (Adr…Aid…Andr..?) •

 

 

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forest of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

 

She starts out by trying to sketch his nose. Then his lips. Baby steps, after all.

She’s not half bad at drawing, probably from early dreams of wanting to be an architect. She keeps the drawings stashed under a floor board, and takes them out only at night. He’s rather handsome, once she starts to get to a full portrait. Prominent, strong features, reminiscent of the roman marble status she so loved. _Is that what drew me to you? Art?_ He has wild brown hair and sparkling green eyes. She fills them in with Crayola pencils, and knows instinctively that the color does not do the real thing justice.

She never draws him smiling. She thinks she knows why.

_Why else did you end up there, huh, Sage? It wasn’t for dressing in something other than alchemist neutrals._

Under his portrait she writes ‘the voice in my head,’ because it certainly isn’t hers.

 

 

The first date goes nicely. They go to an Italian restaurant and talk about business over spaghetti and red wine. He touches her hand from across the table and her skin crawls but she smiles anyway. It’s not his fault that this is happening, that this is what happened.

She remembers something about a cell phone and knows it’s no one’s fault but hers.

 

 

This is the land. We have our inheritance.

 

 

_Adrian._

She bolts out of bed in the dead of night, sweat and the vestiges of a nightmare clinging to her skin. She barely manages to contain her cry, and instead scrambles for the secret hiding place. She scrawls the name under his face and it _fits_ , locking into place like it was always there to begin with.

Adrian.

She has a name. She has a name, a face, and a voice inside her head. Still so far from a person.

She feels a drop of water trace a line down her cheek, and almost mistakes it for sweat. _Why am I crying?_

(She’s still missing the answer.)

 

 

And God said shall these bones live? shall these bones live?

 

 

More flashes come back. (A day out playing mini-golf, wandering around an ancient Greek museum.)

The memories are sketchy at best, but they’re real. She treats each and every one with reverence. (Playing monopoly, making love in a snow-covered motel, taking self-defense lessons from an eccentric instructor.)

There are too many memories now to deny what she suspected, what she hoped wasn’t true.

_You’re in love with the thing you hate. Great job, Sage, you really screwed yourself over with this one._

It’s not his voice this time; just her own.

 

 

She jerks awake, a mess of floundering limbs in tangled sheets and a cry of “Sage!” still ringing in her ears. There’s something creeping over her skin, like a thin membrane of goo, and she rubs at it to get rid of the feeling. Still the feeling of wrongness, of invasiveness, doesn’t go away. She decides that sleeping’s overrated anyway and stays curled up in the dead center of the bed.

(There’s something stalking her from the shadows, trying to catch her every time she closes her eyes. _They’re coming, they’re getting so close, too close, just run!.._ )

In the morning she applies extra concealer to the purple shadows under her eyes and goes to work.

 

 

There is a second date that goes about the same as the first. Except at the end, when he walks her back to her apartment and kisses her at the door. It’s a completely chaste exchange but still manages to leave her breathless. It does wonders on Ian’s ego, who grins and says “I think you like me.”

_Really, Sage, that’s just tasteless. So much cheese you’d need to cut it with a butcher’s knife. I, on the other hand, am an expert of the laying on of cheese and would never offend your sensibilities in such a way._

(She was remembering a different kiss, in a sorority, with a man she shouldn’t love.)

 

 

She reads and rereads the Second Coming, pouring over it with tired eyes into the small hours of the night. There’s an answer somewhere within the lines, there must be. Why else would that poem haunt her in every dream?

_Do you really not remember, Sage?_

She crosses out the third line with red pen. The center _will_ hold. She believes it, even if she’s not quite sure why anymore. It’s just like believing the earth’s round or that your heart’s beating. It just _is_.

She ponders the other lines, the ones that are less clear. What is this beast it talks about? Who is the falconer? She underlines that phrase in different colors.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

_Am I the falcon?_

She certainly feels like it: tossed out into the blue, wheeling about in circles with no one to call her home. Free, but utterly lost.

_I think you’re reading too much into this, Sage. It’s just a poem._

Since when has Adrian been the voice of reason? She’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around. What rough beast indeed.

(Surely some revelation is at hand…) She starts at the beginning again.

 

 

“Did you hear? Some Moroi broke into an alchemist base. The inboxes are blowing up about it!”

The gossip leaks into her cubicle and instantly sets ice into her veins. Please, please don’t let it be… She opens her mail and sure enough, several official notices have already been released, detailing the breach in security.

She opens the newest message and reads it thoroughly. There are pictures at the end of the two perpetrators side by side.

Her breath catches in her throat. He looks even more handsome that she thought. She tries to memorize his features, sucks them in with her eyes. _This could be the last time I ever see your face._

Adrian and…Jill, that’s it! Immediately her heart sinks. Jill. _What did Adrian pull you into?_

At least they fall under Moroi jurisdiction-

“-Hey, are you alright?”

She jumps so hard that her office chair recompresses when she comes down. There watching her is Ian, with something akin to suspicion in his eyes.

“He-he hurt me,” she blurts out and his face is immediately filled with compassion as he draws her into an embrace and whispers soothing words into her hair. She cringes into his arms and her frantic heartbeat sounds like betrayal.

 

 

A couple days later Ian drops by her cubicle again, but not for a social call.

“We’re being sent on a mission,” he announces, the enthusiasm radiating out of every pore. “Just the two of us. But…” and the excitement dies down noticeably, “we have to go to the Moroi Court…the same time as the trial.” The grin turns into a grimace. “I don’t know why they did that.”

 _Don’t play stupid_ , she thinks. _They’re doing it to make a point._

She nods slowly and says something along the lines of _I must do my humble part in our great work_ , but in the back of her head she feels gears turning. They are rusted ancient things and the grinding is almost painful, but she does not try to stop the motion.

Two weeks until we leave, he says. She’ll count down the days.

 

 

Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still

 

 

The day before they leave, she packs everything she’ll need. She removes the drawings from the floor and folds them carefully. No need for the alchemists to check her room while she’s away and find out that their passive little lamb is a bit less passive than she appears.

The wonderful thing about travelling with the Alchemists is no airport security checks. Somehow, they have enough sway to negate that usual precaution. A good thing, too, because the quantities and varieties of chemicals both she and Ian are carrying are definitely not legal.

They roll into Court in a rental car and Ian looks about as pale as one of the undead.

 

 

“You ready?” Ian asks before they go out. She checks herself once more in the mirror: smart black skirt, white blouse, and a large golden eagle pendant in place of her usual cross. Ian had asked her about it before. _My mother gave it to me when I was younger_ , she explained, stroking the curved wing, and was surprised to find tears in her eyes at the thought, threatening to fall. _What does Mom think happened to me? Does she lie awake at night wondering? Does she pray?_ She had to push those thoughts aside to avoid weeping.

Her appearance is suitable. She gives a curt nod. “I am ready to do our work.” She turns to find Ian frowning at her from the doorway of her room. “Is something wrong?” she asks, looking down at her clothing again. Maybe there’s a spot on her skirt she didn’t notice…

“You don’t always have to speak like that,” he says, eyes bright with earnesty. It catches her off guard.

_You bastard. You’d report me immediately if I said anything differently._

“I do everything for the fulfillment of our work,” she replies, and knows it’s like twisting a knife in his heart because he thinks he loves her, in some pathetically twisted way. She can’t bring herself to care. (She only has a spotty recollection of real love, but even those few memories show her; it isn’t this.)

They walk side by side to the function. Somehow, she finds her arm twined through his.

 

 

He sees her, just like the Alchemists planned. It hurts to see his face morph from overjoyed excitement to horror before her eyes. It hurts even more to remain a statue in the face of such emotion, when all she wants to do is scream and not stop until her vocal chords are torn.

His gaze goes to her chest, to the eagle pendant she’s wearing instead of his cross, and at that moment it’s like she can _feel_ him, feel his anguish. Spirit, it must be. She feels it lick over her skin in heady waves and can’t suppress a shudder.

Eddie has to physically restrain the Moroi from rushing across the room, even if it looks from the expression on his face that he wants to do just the same thing. Ian quickly escorts her out of the building, murmuring things into her ear. She doesn’t catch what he’s saying.

They walk, and there is a fear inside her chest that she doesn’t understand, and can’t control.

 

 

“Tonight’s the trial,” Ian tells her, arms wrapped around her waist as he kisses her hair. “I have to go. But maybe it’s best if…you stay here.” He’s obviously worried after what happened today. She nods in agreement, and he seems to relax around her, as if he thought she would try to fight the issue.

_Maybe you aren’t as good an actor as you think you are, Sage._

But that can’t be right; most of the time, she isn’t even acting.

 

 

She puts on a rough glamour, a hoodie and a pair of black gloves and takes to the streets by the back stairwell when it’s night. Everyone should be at the trial by now. Well, mostly everyone. It’s not hard to find a group of disillusioned rich youths hanging on a street corner. She sucks in a deep breath and steels her nerves to stone.

“Hey, you guys looking for something to do?”

They glare back at her sullenly. _Just like human teenagers_ , she thinks, and has to quell a hysterical giggle.

“How about some protest art?”

Apparently deviant behavior crosses the racial divide as well because their eyes light up with unholy delight and they start to grin when she pulls a spray can out of her hoodie pocket. She can’t stop a shiver when she sees their teeth.

_You know, I think somewhere along the line that fake brainwashing you were pretending to have turned into the real thing. Just saying._

The paint is blood red on the white stone buildings. She leaves before the night ends and burns the hoodie in a trash can in her room.

Now she just has to wait. And hope.

 

 

Lord, I am not worthy

Lord, I am not worthy

but speak the word only.

 

 

They really should have expected it. _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…_

And blowing up status with C-4 isn’t exactly subtle.

She takes off running like a bat out of hell when she hears the first explosion and only stops when a minivan skids to a stop in front of her. The back door is thrown open and –

-it’s him. It’s really him. After all this time, and they’re standing less than ten feet apart –

“Get in, Sage!” he yells, and she scrambles into the car. He yanks the door shut and she’s just buckled herself in when she hears another explosion.

“That’s our door!” Rose crows from the driver’s seat. “Just like old times.”

The car shoots forward, speeding for the section of wall that is no longer in existence, and she knows that she has Abe Mazur to thank for this because who else would be insane enough to use the exact same escape plan twice?

…or genius enough. It’s a toss-up, really.

 

 

“I got your message, Sage,” he tells her. “It was brilliant. Well, then again, you’re brilliant, so I shouldn’t have expected less. But anyway, we had just got out of the court room and when we turned to go back to our rooms, well…there it was. And it was from that poem by Yeats so I knew it had to be you, and then I remembered that eagle pin you were wearing, which, I mean, is pretty similar to a falcon, so I figured you were trying to send out a secret message that the Alchemist tattoo didn’t work on you, that you were free. That’s what it means, right? That you’re not under their control?”

 _Good job_ , she thinks. _I always said that you were smart._

“Right?”

It’s kind of chilly in the van. She shivers into the seat.

“Sage?”

..

“Say something.”

 

 

They drive across the country, staying in sketchy motels or pulling all-nighters in the van. Rose is the one driving, so they’re going to make it in half the time anyway. Dimitri sits shot gun, there to remind Rose that yes, it is necessary to stop at red lights.

In the back it’s dead quiet. No amount of overzealous bickering and teasing in the front can cut the silence and tension that coats the air in the backseat. She’s pressed up to the door, hands clenched into the seat fabric, and he mirrors her on the other side, but she doubts his posture is out of fear. He’s been cautious this entire time, in the way he moves, in the way he speaks. He’s trying not to scare her, she realizes dully.

A bit too late for that.

They’re going to California. Because that’s exactly what you wouldn’t be expected to do, if you were caught out there in the first place, right? She hopes so. She doesn’t want to travel anymore.

Ms. Terwilliger meets them just outside Palm Springs with a new car, and immediately enfolds her in a bony hug. She groans when she sees who’s in the driver’s seat of the new van. _Really? They’re still together?_

“Let’s get this operation on the road,” Wolfe says in his gravelly tone, as they all pile into the van. “Actually, this reminds me of a time in Russia, when I and a CIA operative…”

She wants to die, here and now. Almost anything would be better than this. But God is not so kind, and she’s forced to listen to twenty-seven consecutive stories, sandwiched between two vampires, on the way to Inez’s house.

_Things could be worse, Sage. Things could definitely be worse._

_You’re right, Adrian. We could all be running blindly through a maze with Strigoi hot on our tail. But that’s about the only way it could be worse._

He’s right beside her, she realizes with a start. But she’s still hearing his voice in her head. And worse, you actually answered me. Maybe it’s spirit. Maybe he can speak telepathically now.

_Or maybe you’ve finally lost it. Always thought it was going to be me first, huh? But look who’s three fries short of a happy meal now…_

She focuses in on Wolfe’s story with renewed enthusiasm.

 

 

They finally arrive, so she’ll never know exactly how her old self-defense teacher managed to escape from the pit filled with lions, tigers _and_ bears, but no one else in the car seems that cut up about it. Inez is waiting outside for them, a frown decorating her face. She wonders how they roped Inez into this, and really hopes a bargain involving her mechanical skills wasn’t promised behind the scenes.

Either way, they’re led into the guest bedroom, which is covered in roses, and is somehow supposed to house four people for an undisclosed amount of time. She sits down on the side of bed anyway, and feels the mattress sink when he sits next to her, far enough away to give her space, but too close for comfort. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Rose and Dimitri standing in the corner. Rose is making a cutting motion with her hands and shaking her head, trying and failing to be subtle.

He’s there. He’s right there. First a picture, then a name, then a voice in her head, and now a person. A real live person after all this time and _do something, for God’s sake, Sage, don’t just sit there!_

The three feet between them stretches on forever.

 

 

It takes eight minutes for her to work up the courage to find herself in his embrace, and it isn’t anything like the reunions she imagined in her head, but as they just cling to each other, just hold on, she thinks it’s not so bad, either.

They’re together, they’re alive, and she hopes that one of these day, they’ll begin to live.

(it’s nice to know that all that counting was a count-up to this.)

 

 

And let my cry come unto Thee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems Used:
> 
> "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats  
> "Ash Wednesday" by T. S. Eliot  
> "The Tyger" by William Blake


	3. Part III - Uphill

_How long_ she asks and he says _three months_ but she can’t believe.

              (It was _years_ , Adrian. It had to be. I counted.)

.

.

              She shows him the poem she wrote, the one that came to her in snatches while she was locked away. He takes forever to read it, and she watches his gaze hover over every line, as if trying to draw out the answers to their problems with his eyes alone. When he finishes he says he likes it and she nods, pointedly avoiding the watery shine in his eyes. And then he snatches a sheet of paper from Inez’s printer and creates a pen drawing right before her eyes. It’s filled with harshly sketched antique gears, the kind found in old clocks and wind-up toys. In the center of the chaos is a couple, the exact opposite of the gears; they are clean-cut and clinical, yet fluid. Her hand morphs into his shoulder with an effortless scrawl of the black ink.

              Their faces are empty, devoid of any features, any emotion.

              She lets him keep the poem, and presses the drawing to her heart. There are still some things that words cannot say.

.

.

              Ms. Twillinger drives over the next day, alone this time, to help with the magical check up that Inez insisted upon. Inez clucks her tongue in disapproval during the entire thing, and when the examination is over she whirls on Ms. Twillinger and says, “Didn’t you teach this girl anything, Jacklyn?”

              “Of course I did!” Ms. Twillinger looks suitably upset, her wry hair seeming to rise on end at the accusation. “What are you suggesting? That I let a pupil of mine work magic in an unprofessional and dangerous setting?”

              Inez scoffs and manages to look primly conceited at the same time. “You didn’t teach this girl an ounce of mental protection! Her brain’s a complete mess. Her only saving grace was her magical name she picked for joining that little coven of yours.”

              “What do you mean, her name?” Ms. Twillinger presses, and Inez appears to grow a few feet in height.

              “The power of names?” she says loftily, and then, “Really, Jacklyn, I thought even a witch of your caliber would know this.”

              “Yes, I know about the power of names,” Ms. Twillinger snaps, “but could you enlighten us as to how it pertains to this situation?”

              Inez turns to face the group of humans and vampires.

              “Any and every creature has a true name,” she begins. “Possibly several true names, depending on the circumstance and the thing in question. Anyhow, this name sums up everything about the creature. If you know their name, you have complete power over them.” She pauses to let her words sink into the group. “Now, the Alchemists knew the name of Sydney Sage, but they were unaware of the magical name. Therefore, while the aspect of Sydney Sage was corrupted by Alchemist brainwashing, the aspect of the witch was left untouched by both vampire and human magic.”

              There is a collective gasp from the people who know what that means. Which is only three people, but still, a collective gasp is heard.

              “Human magic?” Adrian finally stutters out. “Like, from the Alchemists? In her tattoo?”

              “The very same,” Inez confirms grimly, all condescending airs evaporating from her demeanor. “That’s half of the reason why she’s in the state she’s in now. The Moroi compulsion was broken by her personal magic, but it’s still fighting against the foreign human magic.”

              “So, wait.” Rose throws up her hands as if trying to stop a speeding train. “The Alchemist’s have magic now? I thought they were dead set against anything they think is “unnatural.” Or do they have witches who have magic?”

              “Well that’s the question, isn’t it?” Inez says enigmatically, and a cloud of doom and darkness seems to settle over the entire room.  It’s an unspoken understanding that ‘having witches’ does not mean that the Alchemists work on fair and amicable terms with members of the witchcraft community. Quite the opposite, probably.

              _Well it’s a good thing you didn’t use your magic, Sage. If you had, who knows what they would have done with you. Good call._

              _Thank you_. She’s given up trying to ignore his voice in her head. Besides, it’s nice to talk to somebody.

              Ms. Twillinger sighs, breaking the silence that coated the room like paste. “I’ll call my coven together immediately to tell them about this development. Someone might have heard something. Strange witch disappearances. Anything.” Her eyes usually bright with ideas and excitement are twin flames now, igniting the tension in the room into an inferno. She levels a stare at the entire group. “This is something we cannot ignore.”

              _This is war_ , is what she really means, but no one needs a translation.

.

.

              After Ms. Twillinger leaves and everyone clears out of the sitting room, she slips her hand down her shirt. Adrian, sitting on the couch, is pretending to not watch her.

              Her fingers meet the smooth plastic, made slightly damp and warm by such close proximity to her skin. Her treasure is tucked away in the valley between her breasts, held in place by the tight fabric of her bra. She tugs it free of its hiding place, well aware of the wide-eyed look Adrian is now giving her, his previous nonchalance forgotten.

              She walks up to where he’s sitting on the couch and offers him the flash-drive that’s sitting in her palm.

              “I got a lot done in two weeks,” she tells him, and then realizes that he can’t possibly know what she’s talking about. But the reverent way she holds the flash-drive must give him a pretty good idea of what’s on it, because he takes it from her with the utmost care, his eyes lighting up. She winces as his fingers brush her palm.

              “You are absolutely brilliant, Sage,” he tells her, eyes fixed directly onto hers with such an intensity that for a moment she almost believes him. “I’m going to call Marcus.” He jumps off the couch, cell phone already out of his pocket, and gives her one more glance before going to make the call.

              There’s something in his eyes (adoration? inspiration? insanity?) that causes her stomach to twist painfully. Before the pain can creep its icy tendrils around her heart she looks away.

.

.

              Living with so many vampires is playing havoc with her nerves. She hasn’t had to sleep with this many of them in the same room since…well, since the last time they were on the run, which according to everyone else, was only a year ago.

              _How did I get so bad at counting? I was top of my class in Calculus…_

              As much as she hates to agree with the Adrian in her head, he does have a point. She really has been brainwashed in some way, despite her best efforts. Even Inez said so.

              At least the vampire compulsion is gone. That’s good news. She figures that the only to get rid of the foreign human magic is to use her own against it. Magic must be like a muscle in some ways; if you learn it by practicing and repetition than you must also need to keep up its’ strength with regular exercise.

              Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to use it for such a long time that now even a fireball, one of the things she could conjure quite easily in the past, is a struggle. So she takes it upon herself to practice daily. Over time she begins to see a difference. Her fireballs become larger and burn longer; the objects she moves telekinetically gain a finesse to their turns and loops.

              She takes up Tarot as well. It began as a curiosity for all things witchy and then turned into an obsession. There’s an order to Tarot that speaks to the scientist inside her soul; each card has a specific meaning that can be used to draw out the future. No gazing into a bowl of water and hoping for results, just pure fact. She spends hours trying to memorize the names and meanings of each card, and finds that as an added bonus, everyone tends to leave her alone when she’s studying, especially Rose. The first time the dhampir found her with the deck, she practically ran out of the room.

              Not that she doesn’t want Roses’ company. It’s just that sometimes the oppressive vampire-ness constantly surrounding her is too much to handle. So Tarot becomes her sanctuary, where no one else can touch her.

              Not to say that Tarot is a place devoid of fear. She is too scared to actually read the future, hers or anyone else’s. The possibilities of what they face could be too terrifying to know in advance yet be unable to be stopped. And then there was learning the meanings of the cards, some of which induced mild panic attacks. Well, just one card, actually.

              The Tower: misery, distress, indigence, adversity, calamity, disgrace, deception, ruin. It is a card in particular of unforeseen catastrophe.

              But we should have seen it coming, she thought desperately, incoherently. It was so obvious, our hubris, our ruin, like all good Greek tragedies. We watched as our fate came rolling in and did nothing.

              In a wild wash of anger, she tore the card to pieces.

              Later, when she comes to her senses, she tries to put it back together with scotch tape. It becomes whole again through patient ministrations, but the seams of the damage she inflicted are white and uneven, a lattice-work of paper scars. It works, though, for the purpose of the deck.

              Inez will be able to tell, she thinks.

              (Fate wore the face of my sister, she thinks, and still – and still – the thought cuts like a knife.)

.

.

              One night she asks Rose to tell her the entire story of Lissa’s coronation. She’d always wondered exactly what happened after she was dragged away by the Guardians and then by the Alchemists. Before she’d got assigned to Jill, she’d spent months worrying about Rose and Dimitri, hoping they’d made it but pessimistic about their chances.

              She makes an effort to look Rose in the eyes as the dhampir weaves her tale about Lissa’s trials, court intrigue, and Tanya’s ultimate betrayal. Not to mention that idiotic legacy law. Despite the horrific ending with Rose bleeding out on the floor, she’s surprised it went as well as it did. Everything came together in the end. But really, none of it would have happened if the Moroi ruling class were more open to change and advancement. The legacy law is just one example of their failure to evolve.

.

              Really, such stupid, outdated laws. But what can you expect from vampires?

              What else can you expect from evil creatures of the night?

.

              “Adrian, I have an idea,” she says, “but you may not like it.”

              The grin on his face and the light in his eyes tells her that he’s just happy that she’s willingly talking to him.

              That quickly changes.

.

              “No! Do you – do you realize how screwed up this is?”

              “It’s not as screwed up as our current situation.”

              “Jesus, Sage, this is the type of plan _that I would come up with_.”

              “Then that just shows how brilliant you are.”

              “No, no, it shows how much this plan is going to crash and burn. Come on, you can’t really be serious about this, can you? We’ll find another way.”

              “And how long will that take? We’re losing time here, Adrian. Every moment we sit around doing nothing is another moment for the Alchemists to figure out where we are. This – _this is the best chance we have_.”

              “Sage…”

              “No, Adrian. I’ve made up my mind. I want to do this.”

              “And what if I don’t want to? Huh?”

              She reaches out to touch his forearm, steeling herself for the contact, but in the end it’s he who flinches. She looks him dead in the eyes and says, “But you will do it, Adrian. Because you love me.”

              After a moment he lets out a sigh of defeat. “Yeah, you got me there.” The green of his eyes has never seemed so deep.

              She realizes her hand is still resting on his arm, and snatches it away. “I’ll go call everyone, then.” Before she can do anything stupid (touch him, kiss him, push him up against a wall and steal his breath) she turns away.

.

.

              “Go on Sage, tell them your wonderful plan. I’m sure they’d love it,” Adrian says from behind her, the sarcasm dripping in rivulets off his words. She suppresses the sudden urge to smash something and smiles at the group instead.

              “Thanks for coming, everyone…” and by everyone, she means two witches, two dhampirs, and one Moroi, but every briefing should always start with a welcoming introduction. “As you know, our action concerning the duplicity of the Alchemists has been severely hampered by our ‘wanted’ status…or my ‘wanted’ status, actually, since the Alchemists have no legal hold over any of you. If we really want to do something to try and fix this mess, then we need to get rid of all hindrances.”

              “Sydney!” Rose is immediately up in arms. She’d be out of her chair, too, if Dimitri wasn’t holding onto her. “We’re not just going to leave you behind unprotected! And you’re anything but a hindrance!”

              “I didn’t mean for you to leave me. I had something else in mind.” She waits until everyone is suitably calmed down. There’s no way she wants to have to explain this more than once. “I’ve done some digging these past few weeks, and I found a Moroi law that would protect me. It’s incredibly ancient, maybe even older than the legacy law, and it’s still valid. Times changed, and now it’s no longer needed in today’s society, but the Moroi elite never thought to abolish it. This means we can use it to our advantage. It will make me legally protected under Moroi law, and utterly unreachable to the Alchemists.” She pauses to assess the mood of the room and everyone seems intrigued by this possibility so she adds, “So Adrian and I are getting married.”

              She feels the dumb shock that ripples around the room, and unfortunately, Adrian jumps at the opportunity to speak.

               “What Sydney forgot to mention is that this law is more than just a marriage law. It’s old magic that needs a blood contract to be activated. If we did this, she would literally be bound to me. That’s what the law was used for; to make the human legal property of the Moroi. Do you -”

              “You’re making this much worse than it really is, Adrian,” she interjects smoothly, trying for damage control, but Adrian is on a roll and talks over her, even more loudly than before.

              “But it’s not just that. The law actually creates a psychic bond as well. Usually, this wouldn’t be a problem if the people in it were just a regular Moroi and a human. But I’m a Spirit user connected to Jill, who’s shadow-kissed, and Sydney’s a witch. How’s that supposed to work, huh?” There’s a fire burning in his green eyes and his usually relaxed form is radiating energy. The air seems to crackle on her skin, and she takes an unconscious step back as Adrian levels a glare at the group. “I’ve only once seen three people connected together by psychic bonds, and two of them were crazy! Remember, Rose? I know you saw it.”

              Rose shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but responds anyway, if a bit reluctantly. “Yeah, I, uh…Avery, the other Spirit user, she had two shadow-kissed dhampirs, and both of them were…nuts. And Avery was kind of crazy, too, now that I think about it.”

              Adrian has a smug look of vindication plastered on his face, but she will not allow this to be the end, _oh no_. She has given up her freedom and her sanity to the Alchemists; she’s not about to relinquish more of her allotted time to them too.

              “Alright, listen everyone!”

              It comes out as a shout, which is startling in and of itself to delicate vampire ears. Coupled with the fact that it came from someone who has recently been falling into bouts of mutism, and everyone positively jumps.

              All eyes swing back to her. All the attention in the room is back to her, creating a white-hot funnel of intensity that centers on her chest, just below her clavicle. She resists the urge to flinch, and squares her shoulders instead.

              “We don’t have time to argue about this; every minute we waste, the Alchemist are using to their advantage. The marriage ritual has its risks, yes. But it is _not dangerous_. Have you forgotten what real danger is?” She spits the last sentence at them, all of them, because she suspects that they have. For too long have Dimitri and Rose been enjoying their plushy living at the Court. It’s been decades since Inez faced down a Strigori, and Ms. Twillinger has never even seen one. And Adrian – well, the danger he’s recently experienced comes from an entirely mental place. It’s time for her friends to be reminded of what they really are: warriors.

              “Danger is being attacked by and fighting against Strigori,” she whispers, but it carries on the dead air, filling the room, and she finds her voice growing stronger with each word. “Danger is going to strange and foreign places where you don’t have a friend in the world; running and hiding from people who would want to kill you; battling against forces of which you have limited to no knowledge of. Danger is facing down monsters in white lab coats every day, monsters that want to steal your soul, your identity, make you run their mazes filled with evil, blood-thirsty-“ And she has to stop, recapture her breath. Too much. Too much words, too much emotion. She’s shaking now, right on the edge of maybe screaming, dancing along the razor sharp glint of the knife and _the blood_ -

              _Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. Good, Sage._

              It only takes a second to compose herself, but by that time, half the congregation is out of their chairs. She throws up her hands to stop them.

               “I’m fine,” she says, and they begin to sit back down, faces still intensely worried and skeptical. “I’m fine,” she says again, to nudge the hesitating ones back into their seats, but then reconsiders.

              Then says: “No, actually. I’m not fine. Not even remotely close.”

              The worried eyes widen even more to the point that it’s comical, and the creak of chair legs signals that some people are about to get back up (particularly Rose, who never fully touched back down into her chair in the first place.) No. She will not let this meeting out of her control again.

              “I am not fine,” she declares, out into the open and god, doesn’t it just feel so good to finally say the words, “and I will not be fine for a long time. Not as long as there is still the chance of _my friends_ , _my family_ , being hurt by the Alchemists. While the Alchemists are still allowed to go unchecked, I will seek retribution. But when they are exposed and brought to justice, when we are finally safe again…then I can consider being fine.”

              The room is absolutely silent, and now that she’s finished speaking (ranting), she can catalog the range of emotions displayed on her companions’ faces. Rose is staring at her, utterly jaw-dropped, and the stoic face Dimitri is wearing makes her think that right now he can’t form coherent sentences in his head. Inez looks amused, Ms. Twillinger has her lips pressed together in a flat line that says _you still manage to completely surprise and delight me, Ms. Melbourne_ , and Adrian…

              …he’s looking at her with wide green eyes in the sort of quiet intensity that only he can: _I knew you still had that fire in you, Sage. I always knew._ Again, she feels the energy raise between them, prickling at her skin. She makes the decisive effort not to retreat from it.

              And that’s all great, everyone seems to be reawakened and reinvigorated with her passion, but no one’s really agreeing with her and jumping into action, so she adds, “I’m leaving for Court with the evidence before the week’s out, to do what needs to be done. The marriage ritual would just make it easier.” The ultimatum is laid out. _Take it or leave it._

              “Well,” says Inez, a half-smirk of pleasant surprise gracing her features, “when you put it like that…”

              They get to work.

.

.

              A white dress? Really? “This is hardly a traditional wedding,” she points out to Rose. “I’m sure we can dispense with the traditional color scheme.”

              Rose holds out the short white cocktail dress, face grim and a promise in her eyes that says _you’re not walking away from this one_. “Lissa would kill me if she ever found out we married you off in a pair of blue jeans,” she says, “and besides, do you really want to cross your old witchy mentor? She seems pretty bad-ass.”

              Hmm, that’s a good point. Earlier, Ms. Twillinger had stormed in brandishing the dress and proclaimed, “Ms. Melbourne, I will certainly not have my best student married off at the age of eighteen for a potentially deadly blood magic ritual without having her in a white dress!” The statement had made no sense at all, but the vehemence with which it was said made her sure that her old teacher would spell her into the dress if necessary.

              Reluctantly, she takes the dress from Rose, frowning at the entire situation. “This isn’t right. This – this isn’t a real wedding…”

              “You love him, right?” Rose asks. “I mean, the Alchemists really screwed you over, but you still love him, even after everything you’ve been through, right?”

              The question makes her freeze and the dress almost slips out of her grasp. Rose is leveling her one of those intense stares that all dhampir guardians seem to be capable of wielding, and try as she might she finds it impossible to turn away. Instead she dredges up the energy to give a jerking nod of her head, although it probably looks more like a nervous twitch than anything else.

              “Then it’s real enough,” Rose declares in a whisper, and that officially closes the conversation.

              It’s strange how loss and impossible love stories twine together so easily, like breathing and blood, crossing the racial divide between every creature. She feels the shadow of the dhampir fall across her back as she turns towards the bathroom, and knows that some things cannot be explained, only understood.

.

.

              It’s a small gathering of people, but more than she wanted to be there, to witness this ceremony. After all, this might very well end with her losing her mind and collapsing into a puddle of insanity on the floor.

              They stand before each other in Inez’s living room, surrounded by roses and friends, and she can almost say this is how she would have wanted her wedding to go. She never dreamed of a big affair, just a small, family-oriented ceremony. Except none of her family is here, and half of her friends aren’t either. And this wedding ceremony might just kill her. Plus, she would never have picked this man to be the minister if he was the last one alive on earth. Seriously, who in their right mind would ordain _this_ man?

              “We are gathered here today for the joining of Sydney Sage and Adrian Ishvaskov in Holy Matrimony,” says Wolfe, in the same tone of voice that one might use for a clandestine meeting of rebels (although maybe that’s exactly what this is) but she can’t keep her gaze away from the Moroi man standing right in front of her, less than a foot away.

              He holds the rings, and she the knife. (She really tries not to see this as a metaphor.)

              The magic-bound wedding rings slip on their fingers with ease and she tries to breathe regularly against the panic of what she knows will come next. The handle of the knife in damp under her palm, but she makes two precise slashes: one on the palm of her other hand, and one on his.

              And suddenly she is terrified, more terrified than she has ever been in her entire life, because somehow, it feels like every action and decision she has ever made was inevitable, like it was all a fated path of charred and broken things to this moment, right here, suspended in silence. All they have to do is touch (the one thing she cannot bear to do) and they will crest over the boundary that has held them back from vengeance, from success.

              He stands before her, the epitome of all she should not love, but she can’t help but admire the edges of his jaw and cheeks, the classic beauty to his visage. She stares into his fathomless green eyes (the niggling doubt left by the Alchemists still shouts - _screams inside her mind_ ) and he has never seemed less human, or more _Adrian_.

              She finds that she cannot move, even as her heart hammers out the tune of destiny and her blood dances in her veins.

              But then Wolfe says, “You may kiss the bride,” and she registers mild shock because, even though he never wanted this, Adrian is the one that reaches for her hand and clasps it tightly so that the blood on their palms can mingle. The magic that ignites between their hands is a wildfire of blazing heat, of stars and supernovas and ice cold and she gasps in shock and pain, but he continues the upward motion and pulls her to him. She fits into the plane of his torso and their lips collide. The world disappears. _So that’s what you tasted like. How could I forget -_  

              -we could be sitting in eternity without even knowing it. We could live forever in a moment-

              -and then there is silver and gold and everything that keeps coming all the time, the endless crashing of waves from the oceans across the barren beach, and it is raw and beautiful _so much like ourselves, how sad is it that your broken soul is my perfect self-portrait?_ She tries to cry out, to call out, but all that leaves her mouth is numbers. _Is that all I know after all this time? What about you? Where are you? How can I not know y-_

              She falls into everything and it stretched like the abyss.

.

              She wakes up on the flood with blurry vision and a killer headache. Adrian is sprawled next to her, blinking owlishly at the ceiling.  Worried voices swim in and out of her understanding and nameless faces fill her sight but she waves her hand dismissively and manages to slur out “ ’M fine.”  They help her up to her feet and over to the couch and she sinks into the cushions with the heavy terror that there is no way back.

              They say she was only out for a moment, but she’s learned by now that you can never trust time.

.

              They’re just sitting next to each other on the couch staring straight ahead; not exactly the normal thing for newlyweds to be doing on their wedding night, but this had hardly been an orthodox wedding, so she thinks they should be pardoned from the customary activities.

              It’s strange, but the silence is not uncomfortable. Not like before, when they both wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say and the tension in the air could’ve been cut with a knife. Now, it’s almost like there is no need. Everything that could possibly have been said is understood. All of her secrets, all of her worries and insecurities have been laid bare before him. He finally sees the worst in her. (But it goes both ways. She’s seen him, inside to out. Funny, how she loves him and hates him all the more for it.)

              But because she has the compulsion to analyze the world around her, she can’t let the silence continue forever.

              “That wasn’t how the ceremony was supposed to go,” she muses. “I think perhaps your Spirit and my magic overloaded the ritual, in a way.”

              Adrian only snorts, but the implication is clear. _You think?_

              But she doesn’t feel like carrying on such childish arguments, so instead she says, “I saw you. I felt you. It was…not what I expected.”

              “What did you expect?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious, and she immediately feels ashamed. _Blood, darkness, sharp fangs drenched in red and the smell of death_ …it’s the Alchemists talking, she knows, but shouldn’t she be over this by now?

              _I don’t think you can just decide to get over being brainwashed, Sage. It’s a healing process, you know?_

              “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that,” she says and knows her aura is probably betraying her. “There was silver and gold. And so many emotions; happiness, anger, sorrow and joy. It was… everything, coming at me and washing over me, and it didn’t stop.” The memory of the feeling is enough to make her shiver. “Do you feel like that, all the time?” she asks, and isn’t surprised when he says, “Every single day.”

              He clears his throat, signaling an uncomfortable question that is about to be asked, but somehow she already knows what it will be. That gives her half a second more to formulate an answer.

              “And what I saw…was that how you felt? Is that what you feel…everyday?”

              There’s really no point in lying, not to him, not anymore, so she simply says, “Yes.”

.

.

              They start out for Court the next day. It will be a long drive, she knows, stuck in a car with more vampires than she cares for, but it will be a victory, too.

              Adrian sits next to her again and this time, they hold hands. She cannot help but be painfully aware of his thumb tracing over the bone of her knuckle, but it’s different now. The energy under his skin connects to hers in an entirely new way, no more buzzing with brittle charge, but now a solid current shared between them both. She’s learned to contain her flinch. It’s another victory of sorts, a battle that she won.

              And maybe, just maybe, she can win the war.

.

.

.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem Used: Uphill – Christina Rossetti


	4. Excerpts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God I heard these two talking in my head as I was trying to go to sleep and they wouldn't shut up until I wrote everything down.

_Correction, about what I said earlier. I’m completely nuts._

_You already made your thoughts on my current mental state perfectly clear._

_No, not you, Sage. Me! As in, the me that’s not inside you right now._

_…_

_Uh, okay, I realize how that sounded, and that is **not what I meant**! I just meant the me that’s not a disembodied voice in your head. Which now that I think about it, doesn’t that make what I say and think what you say and think…? And I was going to apologize, too. If anything, you should apologize to me, Sage. I didn’t ask to be part of your surprisingly dirty mind._

_…does this have a point, Adrian?_

_A point? Absolutely. Which I was about to get to, before you distracted me with sexual thoughts._

_How can you get distracted when it’s my brain?_

_It’s a gift. Now, as I was saying before, the Adrian that lives and draws breath, and, you know, isn’t a part of your damaged psyche, well…he’s totally crazy._

_He’s just under a lot of stress. **I** put him under a lot of stress. I still do._

_Stress? Sage, he hopped on the express train to Crazytown and beat you there by hours! If Crazytown were a geographical location, he’d be…the statue in the main square…or something._

_…statue? Really?_

_Hey, I’m no poet._

_Don’t I know it._

_Funny, Sage. Real funny._

_…alright, I noticed it too. Or, well, I had to have noticed it if you did. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t just magically fix him._

_Can’t you?_

_No, Adrian, I really can’t. I don’t know any…mind healing spells._

_No Vulcan mind-melding meditation?_

_Have you even seen Star Trek?_

_The new ones._

_Doesn’t count. And no, no spells that I’m aware of can fix someone’s mental state. Don’t you think I would have used it by now to get you out of my head?_

_I…seriously resent that statement._

_I’m sorry. That was cruel. I did create you after all. It’s just, sometimes two Adrian’s are a little hard to handle._

_What? No, not that! What do you mean the new movies don’t count? Did you even see them? They were awesome!_

_No. We are not having this discussion. Not now, and definitely not inside my head. And of course I saw them, Adrian, if you saw them then I had to have…no, just – just no._

_…_

_You could always just talk to him._

_About what?_

_About what happened, to both of you, while you were – separated._

_And what would that solve?_

_Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. A least it would give you a chance to catch up._

_Catch up? Adrian, this isn’t two friends sitting down to coffee after not seeing each other for a couple of months. This is…it can’t be…it’s too…_

_Hey, believe me, I know. I was there. I’m just throwing out ideas, Sage. I’m only supposed to be your sounding board, not your problem-solving machine. Actually, if you want to get technical, I’m not really supposed to be here at all…_

_…_

_No, you’re right. I need to – we should at least try – thank you, Adrian, for helping out with problems between me and…Adrian._

_Hey, no problem. It’s why I’m here._

_I’m glad. That you’re here, I mean._

_I know, Sage. I am you, after all._

And isn’t that just the most depressing part?

.

.

              _Sage._

_Sage._

_Sage._

_What?_

_Are you asleep?_

_Yes._

_Hey, no need for sarcasm. It was an honest question._

_What do you want, Adrian?_

_Right down to business, huh?_

_…_

_Well, actually nothing. I’m just bored._

_…_

_Usually when I’m bored and I should be sleeping, I just dream-walk. But here…_

_Oh don’t give me that. You’ve never made a spirit dream in your life. Count sheep, or think deep thoughts about the universe or something, but please be quiet because some of us are tired and want to go to sleep._

_I’m not tired. And since I’m not tired, that means you can’t be tired either._

_Excellent logic, Adrian. Now shut up._

_Alright, alright, I’ll be quiet. We can go back to pretending to be asleep._

_…_

_Or we could play monopoly instead._

 

              They play monopoly in her own head, and somehow she still loses.

.

.

              _Adrian._

_Adrian?_

              Nothing, except silence. The elusive, blessed quiet that she’d been yearning for ever since another person joined her inside her head has finally been given back. Somehow, it feels more like a curse now, than a blessing.

              _I’ll miss you, I guess. In my head. It was…nice, to have some company._

              No answer. But she didn’t expect one, really.

              _Alright, then. I guess this is it._

_Goodbye._

              She has better things to do than mourning a person who was never really real. He wouldn’t want her to be sad. And besides, there’s an Adrian sitting right next to her, who is very much his own person. Time to bring the conversation outside to the real world.

              “Hey,” she says, and her voice is still crackly from disuse. “Can we talk?”

              Judging by the smile that lights up his face, they most assuredly can.

**Author's Note:**

> Plays and Poems Used:
> 
> "The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark" by Shakespeare  
> "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats  
> "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by John Keats  
> "The Tyger" by William Blake


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